


The Age Of Surrender

by scatteredmoonlight



Series: The Walls Let Ours Combine [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Whump, Wish Fulfillment, or so they think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-06-03 00:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19452376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteredmoonlight/pseuds/scatteredmoonlight
Summary: Sansa and Jon don't like each other, but that doesn't stop them from making out in secret around Winterfell.





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Pretender" by Miike Snow.

The upcoming visit of King Robert approached, and Sansa overheard her own wonderment reflected in her parents’ speculation on if she were to marry the crowned prince. They’d spoken lowly together at breakfast, but nerves had her ears keener these days. She heard them well despite their efforts. She'd come short of breath, cheeks flushing, and immediately wanted to become a lady perfect for the prince. She knew how to sew, mend, curtsy, and smile when she felt cold inside, but she didn't know how to speak to a man, or how to touch them. The capital had so many pretty girls and Sansa wanted to be prettier. 

She couldn't ask Robb for help, but her  _ half _ -brother Jon would suffice. Jon felt more like a stranger to her than anything. Her mother’s disdain for him made it as simple as breathing to ignore him, and Sansa barely remembered having any meaningful conversation alone with him. He struck her more as any other boy than as her kin, and so he was perfect for what she needed now. 

She sought for him throughout the castle and wasted a good hour before remembering that he spent a significant portion of his time practicing with a sword. She diverted course to the courtyard where the boys and Arya practiced, and of course, there he was.

She watched him throw his weight into the strike, the collision against the straw dummy harsh and abrasive. She stepped toward him, hands primly tucked over her waist. 

“Jon!” she called out. He whirled around, startled. Probably wondering why she deemed him worthy of her presence. “Can we talk privately?” 

The sword hung at his side. “Why?” he implored.

“The armory is empty. Let us speak there.” She left before he could reply. 

The armory felt massive to her until Jon followed her inside. She felt smaller, trapped between the walls and Jon, and she realized more than ever the ability he possessed to wield many weapons in there. He peered at her with caution. His vulnerability in the meager lighting lent him a certain air, a sadness that Sansa wanted to console. A ticking started pumping blood through her quicker. Her cheeks felt hot. Her hands, folded neatly at her waist, itched to grab him. He had such strong shoulders and unruly hair. She never noticed until now and reminded herself this was Jon, her brother. Half-brother. 

“What's this about?” he asked. 

“Sorry? I can't hear you.” She heard him plain, but the lie forced him to draw nearer. He came to stand before her and with him so close, the ticking sped. She slipped her hands to the small of her back and caught herself assessing his mouth. When she looked back into his eyes, his features were drawn in confusion. 

“Is… something the matter?” he said.

His voice had a nice hilt. She tried to ignore it. 

“I…” She didn’t want to look down at his lips again, but found it easier than his bewildered brown eyes. “Have you ever been with a girl?”

Jon shifted.

“I've never been with a boy. I wonder if maybe you and I could…”

A silence hung in the air. 

Jon certainly now went through an inner debate — it was evident in the flick of those sad eyes over her, lingering at her mouth. Then his gaze shuddered, and he looked anywhere but at her. She shifted, moving imperceptibly closer to him. After a breadth of quiet, slowly he drew up his hand, asking a question neither could voice. He curled a finger through her red hair, and everywhere she stood on edge in anticipation. 

It felt amazing to be touched, even so simply like this. 

She wrapped her arms around his neck like the maidens did in songs and played with his hair. Combing her hair always left her relaxed, so she carded her fingers through his thick curls. His eyes flickered closed, a sign she must be doing something right. She rose on her tiptoes in order to brush her lips against his. She then went back on her heels. 

His tongue darted out, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smile. Her stomach fluttered at the sight. She kissed him again, this time with more pressure, but when she made to stand flat back on the ground, he slipped a hand through her hair as she did to him and wrapped her up in a hug, drawing her flush against him. 

They kissed in a separate rhythm to start, only to quickly match pace. Taller than her, Jon lifted her up and helped her balance on her toes, and she arched her back into him. He never stumbled as she fell into him. Her stomach fluttered enough that she worried a giddy laugh might bubble up. She found that she rather enjoyed him holding her as he did — and it seemed he did, too. His fingers sifted gently through her hair. His kisses matched that pace. Sansa herself grew a little antsy for more. She tugged at his dark curls and pulled his mouth a little ways from her, acquiring the sudden impulse to capture his lip between her teeth as she did so. Jon groaned softly. The laugh that Sansa feared might come from her flustered nerves instead emerged as a smug smirk. Here was Jon, the best at a sword in their entire family, though no one would dare admit it, and with just her nimble fingers and small bite, she could draw out such noises from him. She dug her fingers through his hair and held on tighter. His hold on her grew slack, and with that advantage Sansa took a tiny step back as he tried to reclaim her lips and kiss again. She waited until after he made the most pathetic noise to launch herself at him.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and left not a slip of space between them. Gone was Jon’s prior gentleness. His hand dug into her back hard enough that the pressure on her lacing left an ache. He held her cheek and kept her in place. She sighed against his mouth. He kissed her back so hard that the stubble on his face burned her skin. She loved it. She loved being in his grasp. She loved eliciting such a reaction from a capable warrior with only her touch as a weapon. She could do this all day. 

“Jon! Where are you?” called Robb from outside. “Jon!”

He broke away from her, hissing. Sansa kept her eyes shut and relished in the tingling of her lips. Neither released their holds on the other. Sansa found herself hating Robb in that moment, wishing he’d wander away and forget about training with Jon.

As the ecstacy of kissing began to wane and time continued to progress, Sansa remembered again who she spent the last few minutes kissing. She looked up at Jon. He seemed to sense her and cracked open his eyes to meet her gaze.

Neither spoke. Sansa considered it easier to broach the topic of kissing than acknowledge that they’d just done it and had to say goodbye to it.

Jon stepped away from her and nodded sternly. He retrieved his sword and bade for the doors, but his steps were unbalanced, eyes glossy and a little vacant. He touched a hand to the door and looked back at Sansa sheepishly. “I’m sorry for ruining your hair. I know it must take ages to do.”

* * *

They avoided another for the remainder of the week, but one day when the grey skies crept over Winterfell and never left, Jon found her after her sewing lessons.

With windswept hair damp with sweat along the edges, he captured her full attention at first sight. Her lips tingled at the sight of him, and the urge to hold him overwhelmed her. She could not be certain which impulse irked her more: the fact that Jon stirred such a reaction out of her, or that she’d reacted to him at all.

The girls from her lessons giggled lightly and broke Sansa from her daze. She’d forgotten entirely about them. They chattered about complicated new stitches and how none of their roses had resembled anything close to the flower. Sansa joined in the conversation, not caring much for it beyond pleasantries, and truth be told, she liked the idea of Jon waiting for her. She wondered if the sight of her stirred him as he did her. 

Once the girls parted, Sansa gathered an inner sense of calm before starting down the corridor toward Jon. But it only took one look at his solemn, humble face and she wanted nothing more than to kiss him. A smile fought to mar her features, and she bit her lip to stop it. She kept scolding herself to not let these thoughts show, as she was all but promised to the prince, but what did it matter if Jon made her smile? The bastard of Winterfell was still her kin. No one would look twice if Sansa smiled at Robb.

She examined the soft leather of his jerkin to still her nerves, only the long sleeve of his swordhand accentuated the thickness of his arms, and her gaze snapped to his free arm, the jerkin ending abruptly at the shoulder. The thought came so quickly that it stunned her, but she wanted to see him without any clothes at all to discover the truth of his strength.

She tipped her chin to him. “Jon.”

He evaded eye contact. Sansa felt so much better about the situation.

“I want to talk.” He shrunk against the stone walls. “Privately, I mean. About what we did… privately.” But as soon as he uttered the words, his former shyness was gone. He touched her wrist and leaned close enough for only her to hear. “But I don’t mean to say I want us to do it again — unless you — unless you want to, that is.”

His tongue darted out to lick his lips. Sansa was transfixed.

“We can talk,” she said, watching his lips. The wolf awakened in her, and she gazed up at him with hooded eyes. “Privately.”

* * *

They hadn’t spoken a word the second they entered the library. It was abandoned, as only Maester Luwin went there at this hour and he was sick with the flu. With a gentle hold of her wrist, Jon led her down the aisles until they found the coldest, darkest corner. Jon didn’t have a chance to release her wrist or settle himself into their new environment before Sansa wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down to meet her lips.

He dug his fingers into her hair and chills went all over her head, down her spine, and to her toes at his lightest movement. Every kiss was new and exciting. He suckled on her bottom lip and made it full and plump. The need to feel his warmth with her tongue grew too desperate to ignore. They swayed gently where they stood, the library silent save for their kisses. Soon enough Jon broke away to pepper kisses along her jaw and whisper into her ear, “Sansa, Sansa, Sansa…” Then he kissed right over the shell and nipped at her earlobe. Her eyes fluttered closed. She swayed dizzily, but his hold kept her steady.

Her hand fell from his neck and she touched his arm without the thicker leather sleeve. His heat burned her, but to no surprise as her hands were cold to begin with. She touched beneath the short sleeve of his jerkin. Muscle and bone shifted beneath her. His kiss found a sensitive spot along her neck. She clutched his shoulder on reflex, the doublet bunched in her fist. He suckled on her there, attention honing on it, and a little moan escaped her. It felt like he remained there for hours, her reflexes harder to control, though she didn’t dare control herself. She found it made his kisses feel even better.

Later on, they collected themselves to gather their breaths and cool their nerves so nothing was amiss when they left the library. Sansa leaned against a bookshelf while Jon was perched in front of her on a wooden chair, his head resting on her abdomen as if she were a pillow. She combed fingers through his hair and admired the weight of his head surrendered against her.

“You’re my sister,” Jon whispered.

“I only have three brothers,” she said, though her voice was softer than she’d ever heard it. “None are bastards.”

Jon huffed and shifted to peer at her. Her palm fell away and cupped his cheek. She found no malice in his dark eyes but an affection. “You really know how to make a man feel special,” he said.

She smiled and let her head fall back, content.

* * *

It didn’t hit her what she’d truly done until the King and Queen arrived in Winterfell and the certainty of her betrothal to Prince Joffery was imminent. 

Sansa had been a foolish, naive little girl focused more on pointless ideas than reality. She’d sullied her honor. She remembered how it felt in Jon’s arms, how she’d relished in drawing those reactions out of him, and felt a shame so deep over her impropriety that she could barely feel terrible over kissing her own blood.

The Queen was stunningly beautiful with fine features and golden, wavy hair that must have taken years to grow. Her penetrating stare had Sansa wishing to hide behind her father. When Cersei asked if Sansa had yet to bleed, she feared that she might have perished right there before her. Other times she caught Queen Cersei spying on her out of the corner of her eye. Magic had long ago left Westeros after the dragons had died out from these lands, yet still Sansa feared Cersei would find out, by whatever means necessary. She knew that her nerves were getting the best of her. Cersei was merely assessing her to see if Sansa were a proper enough lady to marry into the royal family, but somehow Cersei must have  _ known _ what she had done with Jon. Any chance of Cersei knowing was incomprehensive, but the audacity of Sansa’s actions were so sallactious that if not revealed by magic, then it must have been blatant in her every action regardless. 

Cersei would eventually find out, and Sansa would rightfully lose any chance of marrying Joffrey.

She was  _ such _ an idiot.

And yet…

She couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the back of the great dining hall where she knew Jon was. 

Ordinarily he ate with the rest of the Starks, but her mother refused to seat a bastard beside the King. Her father hadn’t argued, as her mother’s position was more than sensible, and so Jon sat as far from the other nobles as possible. If only her mother knew how Jon’s absence affected her. Sansa found it difficult to focus on much of what Joffery said. None of this was obvious, Sansa made sure of that. She smiled, laughed, asked the right questions, listened when she ought to. Joffery seemed to appreciate her. But in truth her attention was spent trying to glimpse a view of Jon. It proved to be a remarkable challenge given the lack of candlelight in his area of the hall. Much of the candles went to the high table where the King and Queen sat, everyone else sacrificing comfort for this sign of fealty. With Jon’s dark hair and equally morose clothing and disposition, Sansa couldn’t place him. But that didn’t stop her from looking.

She tried not to feel disappointment, but somehow their kisses had transformed her regard for him. Try as she might, the bitter sickness of disappointment turned her stomach, her appetite not quite with her. She still didn’t like him. She did not know if she even cared for him. But her feelings had transformed into something deeper. This she knew for certainty, however indescribable the feeling.

* * *

As the days went by, they didn’t kiss again.

They hadn’t seen much of each other. Sansa entertained Joffrey and fought hard to win his favor.

But then Lady died.

Few people understood the value of animals and their lives. Lady hadn’t been a mere animal. She was Sansa’s second sister, her confidant, a reciprocality of love and understanding that did not require blood or oaths. Lady and Sansa’s bond surpassed anything else Sansa had ever known. 

Nowhere felt safe in Winterfell after her dearest friend had left this world. She couldn’t go to her room. It stank of a dirty wolf. Even if it had not, she couldn’t stop her imagination from seeing Lady by the fireplace. She saw Lady in the rooms where she loved to sew and read. Lady laid beside her as she prayed in the Godswood. And even if she couldn’t escape the memory of Lady, there was still Arya’s voice and the vassals of the King. All she wanted was a moment of peace. She wanted to remember life before Lady and see if it were possible to return to it.

Sansa cut through corners in Winterfell and scampered whenever she caught voices of people she’d rather avoid. She fled all throughout the days after Lady’s passing, coming out of hiding only not to lose Joffery’s favor. Panic welled up in her as it grew apparent that she’d never find an escape from memories and other people.

She stopped short when she caught sight of the armory. She dried her tears on her sleeve. It was wrong of her, but she went inside.

Fortunately, it was early enough in the morning that no one occupied the amory nor did Sansa have concern that anyone would come soon. She examined the various swords, shields, daggers, and other weaponry she didn’t know the names to. If her father found her here, she wondered what he’d say. Arya was so bullheaded that he had no choice but to humor her, but he refused even entertaining the idea of introducing Sansa to violence. Not that she minded.

She settled where Jon had kissed her and closed her eyes, imagining it.

* * *

She couldn’t stay there forever. With dried tears and a calmer countenance, Sansa emerged from the armory only to regret it as soon as she did.

Arya.

In her path was that freak of a sister who couldn’t just stay quiet and do as she was told. Right now she brandished a stick in her bare hands as if it were a sword, roughing up her fingertips in the process and thus only causing more work for her maidservants later on. The ends of her fine velvet dress were soiled by the mud. If it were Sansa there in her place, she bet their father would sense it from as far as King’s Landing and swarm her with a rightful scolding. But Arya could whine and plead anyone into relenting to her selfish demands.

Sansa heard Nymeria had disappeared from Winterfell, and she hoped that meant the direwolf was dead.

But as soon as she thought such tragedy on Nymeria, the shame she felt brought the tears back. 

She breathed slowly for a few seconds, then hastened toward Arya to wish her a good morning. Arya wouldn’t know it for an apology, but Sansa couldn’t bare to let her anger fester and devolve into wishing death upon innocents.

Arya whacked at the straw dummy and grunted pathetically, sounding more like a mouse than anything. 

“You need to use more than your arms,” came Jon’s voice. 

Sansa halted.  _ He’s chosen Arya’s side _ , she realized. A little voice told her that conclusion was mad, but then Jon appeared from behind a cart piled with lumber and settled behind Arya. He tapped her thigh and directed it to a new position, reaching behind Arya to grab her wrists and steady her grip. 

Sansa wanted to slap his hands away and shout at him to leave Arya be. Don’t hold her wrists like that, when he’d held Sansa’s wrist similarly in the library. That was supposed to be theirs and theirs alone. He’d never touched her thigh, and there he was moving Arya to position, towering over her from behind and so much taller than her that his thighs touched her everywhere. She knew there were differences between how he was with Arya now and how he’d been with her, but had Arya been crying alone? Had she been rushing through the castle for comfort? Sansa was the one suffering, and yet Arya got all the attention. 

Her lip started to wobble. She caught it between her teeth and bit hard. Eyes stinging, she looked around for a way to disappear into the castle, but the quickest entrance involved passing them. If she doubled back, she’d risk encountering someone in the midst of tears. She didn’t want to go back into the armory. She worried that the memory of being with Jon had been destroyed beyond repair. And once the destruction was thought, awful images of Jon kissing Arya instead intruded into her mind.

She watched as Jon pulled back Arya’s arms and the stick with her, then with one quick strike, Arya hit the dummy with precision. Arya shouted in joy, dropping the stick and spinning around in Jon’s arms. She jumped high and hugged him with her arms around his neck and her smiling face pressed to his shoulder. He wrapped her in his arms. They were embracing in plain view.

Sansa bet if she’d done the same, her mother would scold her about propriety, how an illegitimate bastard still had the ability to steal her honor. She glared at Arya with a hatred that surprised her.

Arya looked up and caught Sansa’s eye. Her once gleeful smile for Jon twisted into a sneer. “Oh,” she said, loud enough to carry across the courtyard. “It’s the liar.”

Jon turned around, his face slack with confusion. Sansa’s glare then got directed at him too, but he didn’t regard her like a traitorous stain. In fact, she could have sworn his face softened in pity.  _ Pity! _

Sansa ground her teeth and forced herself to pass them in a slow, steady gait. It was the kind that her mother had taught her ever since she learned to walk. She chose the stride reserved for the Lords and Ladies that she would only encounter once, but they were vital for her future lord husband to flatter into signing treaties. As she passed them, she paid them no heed, even while Arya whispered obscenities under her breath.

But the second Sansa rounded the corner and knew they could not see her anymore, she snatched up her skirts and rushed for the archway leading up to the nearest stairwell, fighting hard to not let her tears fall. 

* * *

The sun fell past the horizon and night cloaked Winterfell in the cold dark. Sansa had calmed down enough to spend the afternoon sewing and gossiping with Jeyne and the other girls, but soon night came and she needed to leave for her room.

Ever since the King had visited, Lady had often been kept in the stables. Sansa had a strike of stupidity after leaving the girls and went straight for the stables to retrieve her — but she never got to be heartbroken over missing her beloved Lady. Just beside the stables, Tyrion Lanniser sat on the edge of a fence and criticized Jon’s technique as he pummeled a dummy with his sword. She tried to hurry back where she came, only Tyrion noticed her first, raising a goblet to her. 

“Lady Sansa,” said Tyrion. “It’s wonderful to make your acquaintance on such a fine evening.”

She curtsied to him. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion.”

He snickered into his wine glass. “ ‘Lord Tyrion.’ ”

Jon whacked away at the dummy, ignoring them both. Sansa pretended not to feel the sting. He was still her bastard brother, and thus held little meaning to her. Nevertheless, his turned back irritated her.

“Congratulations on your upcoming journey south,” said Tyrion, though it didn’t sound at all sincere. “And, of course, congratulations to you, too, Jon Snow.”

“What does he need any congratulating for?” cut in Sansa.

“Why, for the Night’s Watch. Your brother is going to make a fine protector of the realm.”

Her heart started pounding faster, and she couldn’t quite believe what Tyrion had said. The Night’s Watch was for rapists, murderers, traitors, and bastards, too, she knew, but the blood of Ned Stark, the Warden of the North, coursed through Jon’s veins. He couldn’t go up there. She tried to imagine Jon, who’d hesitantly curled her hair around his finger, breaking bread with murders and rapists. The thought made her want to wretch. 

She forced away those thoughts. Knowing she must reply, she said, “He’s a bastard, not my brother.”

Jon pummeled the dummy hard, then walked off and away from them without a word. 

“When does he leave for the Wall?” she asked.

Tyrion looked into his goblet. “Tomorrow before dawn.”

Sansa watched him disappear into the night, a sinking in her stomach. 

It didn’t matter if that was their goodbye. He wasn’t family, and besides, she was in all but formality promised to the heir of the Seven Kingdoms.

* * *

But she  _ couldn’t _ leave it at that. Her last words to Lady had been an order for her to stay quiet and not get in the way of Joffrey inviting her for a private stroll. She couldn’t let Jon leave for the Wall with such callous words being their final memory.

She had never been to his room before, and so had difficulty finding it despite knowing where he slept. Her mother refused to house him close to her children. His wing of the castle didn’t have as much access to the hot springs, but with her cloak and the torches burning bright in iron sconces, the cold didn’t affect Sansa.

She rapped her gloved knuckles against his door and waited. Around half a minute passed, she’d counted it in her thoughts, when the knob finally twisted and the large wooden door groaned open. Jon peered out and noticed her soon enough.

“Sansa?”

She pinched her fingers together to release a bout of annoyance — no, it was sadness, she realized, after being honest with herself. She glanced over her shoulder to check for onlookers, then stepped closer to the door. “May I enter?”

He stepped aside and opened the door wide enough to allow her in but not the cold. She felt so out of place. Everything was secondhand from Robb or lacking a distinct element of quality compared to Robb’s possessions, and the only splash of color was the light lavender of her dress and the grey fur lining her cloak.

Jon invited her to sit at a small table, but she remained standing. He went to her instead.

“Sansa,” he said, “why are you here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have an idea. I’ve never known you to act in halves.”

His earnest expression irritated her. His curly hair had grown unruly as the day progressed. Once night had come, there was no pressing need to tame it. His look suited him, and it wasn’t because of the strong Stark features or that everyone had been forced to groom themselves better for the King. No, he held a certain humility that had her knees feeling weak and made it difficult to keep her hands at her sides. She wanted to kiss him again, to close her eyes and not see his good looks but feel it beneath her lips and hands. But then she remembered how he’d held Arya and been with her all afternoon when Sansa was the one who sought out the armory to reminisce about their first kiss, the memory of him being the only thing that provided her levity after Lady’s death.

She wanted him for herself. She wanted to be the only one he held. To be the girl he rushed to comfort and treat like a treasure, not because she’d been trained to become a lady all her life but because he thought of her that way. She wanted her Lady back, for everything to go back to normal, but soon she’d leave for King’s Landing and the thought filled her with dread.

She sucked on her lip and played with the frilly lace lining her dress sleeves. “Don’t go to the Wall,” she whispered. “It isn’t safe. There’s stories, I’ve heard them from Old Nan… the creatures in the forest…”

Jon softened with pity once again. He touched her nervous hand and looked down at their twining fingers with a drawn, forlorn look. She admired how noble that somehow made him. She wondered if he ever held Arya’s hand like this, or if he reserved this touch only for her. 

“I can’t stay,” said Jon thickly. “There’s no future for me here.”

The retort came out before she gave it any thought. “That’s not true! Robb will one day need your council. You’re excellent with a sword.” But it didn’t seem fair that his life was only as valuable as the men he could kill on the battlefield. He had no lands nor a title and lived only as well as he did out of the kindness of her parents’ hearts. She hadn’t ever really thought of how difficult it must be for the bastard of Winterfell, living his life by virtue of another’s charity.

_ Stay because I want you to _ , her mind screamed. But that wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. She only kissed him twice and now her mind attempted to rewrite history about their relationship.

There was nothing she could do to make either of them stay, but she could still take from him a souvenir. 

She raised up their twined hands and kissed the edge of his palm near his pulse. She counted four beats beneath her lips before she released him. She felt the tears starting to build and didn’t understand why they were coming at all, but soon enough her vision grew blurry and tears fell here and there, dampening their hands. 

“Oh, Sansa,” Jon whispered, and he embraced her. 

He held her dearly — she hadn’t ever felt such an embrace, but knew instinctively that this must be very dear. After a time, he pressed a kiss over her ear. Then he kissed her temple, at the center of her forehead, over her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and finally her lips.

They kissed for a good while, never uttering a word, and the only sounds were their clothing rustling as they moved. Sansa laid a hand flat over his chest where she believed his heart must rest. No matter how impossible it was for her to understand her own thoughts, this conveyed precisely what she meant and nothing else could suffice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first GOT fic. Be kind, my heart can't take it ♥


	2. Jon

From Castle Black to Brandon’s Gift the darkness stretched in a vast and unfathomable void. No light could penetrate the mists seeping off the Wall and discoloring the murky depths below and beyond the mammoth sized sheet of ice. Trees with branches thick as untamed hair, secrets buried deep into unmarked graves – that darkness possessed everything. Jon’s duty was to protect it. His shield was forever raised to the titles and lands of the cruelest hearts, the innocents who quaked under their mercy. Joffery Baratheon had cut off his father’s head, his sisters more or less specatators for all Jon knew, lest they were next. Surely Robb was next.

There was nothing to be done.

He grimaced against the shrieking winds. It was just as well that Jon couldn’t see any of them. Not from this height, not through this weather, not from this distance. Joffery’s life, all their lives, carried the same weight on his shoulders. May the Others take him; Jon couldn’t stomach the alternative.

“Fancy seeing you here, bastard.”

Allister Thorne.

Jon paid him no heed.

Thorne assessed south of the wall silently, yet still crawled under Jon’s skin. the obvious screamed at them — Ned Stark’s death. There had never been a future for Jon in that black of sea beneath them, but House Stark was now in chaos. He’d alighted a horse once to flee south in Robb’s aide, and he still could do it again.

Jon stopped himself from sneering and left. As he abandoned his station, Thorne spoke lowly, a smile lurking in his voice, “My condolencenes, Snow.”

* * *

“Best accept they’re all as good as dead,” said Grenn.

Jon’s blood ran cold, but he didn’t let it show.

Sam blanched. “How can you… _say_ that?”

“Father left years ago. Sisters are barely half my age. Mum can’t cook without the money I brought in. So, aye, I pretend they’re all dead. It’s better than remembering that every day they’re hungrier and poorer.” Grenn wolfed down his stew and shrugged. “Look at me like that all you want.”

Jon tried to imagine Robb lying dead in a battlefield, a blade nestled below his ribs and filling his punctured lung with hot blood. Without his highborn twin of age, it wasn’t so bad being the bastard of Winterfell. But as the thought sprung, his shame deepened. Besides, there was little need to worry for Robb, nor Arya with her Needle. He wondered of Sansa. Was it best he accepted her for dead? Being a traitor’s daughter betrothed to the King who murdered him might as well be a death sentence. Were she to die, he prayed it was fast.

* * *

Ghost was still pacing at the door once Jon fell asleep.

He dreamed of Sansa.

They crashed into a kiss with hands grappling and knees knocking. He walked her into the forests north of the Wall, nowhere close to the weirwood and the shrouded trees where Ghost emerged with the butchered hand. No, Jon brought her to safety where King’s Landing couldn’t touch her. They disappeared into the white and never grew cold, their kisses blossoming warmth across their cheeks and inside their bellies. He pressed his knee between her thighs and guided her through the trees — she never saw anything, walking blind, but it didn’t seem to matter to her. He ought to not like it that in front of others, she was certain to remind everyone that he was her bastard _half_ -brother, yet still she kissed him and cried in his arms and spoke about the future. A light in him burst at her acknowledgement of him, her unmistakable positive regard, but there was no honor in kissing his sister. It was a foul practice, a rotten love. But it was as Sansa had always said: Jon was a bastard. Kissing him was different than kissing Robb, certainly.

Sansa kissed him like her affection could slow the sands of time from slipping faster, faster, faster down the hourglass. Yet she grappled for his wrists, cheeks, settling with drawing her hands along his ribs and clutching his shoulders. He worried for her; she wasn’t a warrior like Arya, and all that ladylike decorum struck him more as wistful naivety than a viper’s wit. Until recently he’d never fathomed worrying about her above all of his other siblings, but the salt in her tears still burned his lips. He never knew Sansa to be desperate or in want of anything. He had always thought that he could read her well. Now he knew her only to feel a bereavement that devastated her. Did it matter who they were, if his kisses were capable of ending her tears?

But it could have never gone too far. It was right to leave for the Wall. Catelyn had no chance to wring his neck, he would do the deed first. She was meant for princes. He could hate Joffery Baratheon till the end of his days. But life’s sad fate never touched them in his dreams.

A tree broke their path. Sansa nipped him as her back crashed into it. His fingers tangled with her hair and her warmth was all he knew.

“No! No! _No!_ ” cried Arya.

She snatched his hand. Startled, Jon made to look at her only to discover that he had left the forest and now teetered off the edge of the Wall. Sansa had vanished. Only Arya’s grip protected him from plunging in the murky dark.

“You’re going the wrong way, you idiot!” The winds whipped her words from him. “Can’t you see? You’re going the wrong way!”

Her hold loosened, but before he fell from the Wall, he awakened with a jolt.

He blinked, disorientated, at the shadowy cieling. He chased down memories of his quickly forgotten dream. He fought hard against his own mind to pull out images — and finally caught one.

He remembered Sansa, holding her, kissing her, trying to understand her confusing behavior as best he could. He was stricken with the realization that he never really knew her. She had always ignored him in favor of falling in Lady Catelyn’s footsteps, and it bothered him as much as it didn’t bother him. Sansa’s indifference graced him with the mercy of hopelessness, and a bastard fared better in life with a little less dreaming.

But why did she want to kiss him? And why did he like it enough to dream of her?

He lied awake till the sunrise streamed rays of greyed light between cracks in the wooden doorframe. He imagined mounting a horse and riding to King’s Landing, dueling Joffery and cutting open his guts. He would find Sansa and take her far away from the south. She never called him bastard in his dreams, but in this scenario he liked it, as he was romancing his own blood. They went north together and lived wild away from the oaths and propriety of the Seven Kingdoms. He remembered those feverish kisses where he tasted the longing on her tongue that she could not voice. He should have taken her with him and hid her somewhere deep in Castle Black, a miserable life but at least she was as far as she could be from Joffrey.

 _Best accept they’re all as good as dead_ , Grenn had said.

Jon mulled it over. Bastards were better off never dreaming, he knew. He forgot the make believe Sansa who lived in his head and remembered the sister who never inspired him to dream. He accepted her as dead, now, and hoped he lived all the better from it.

* * *

The stars glowed in a mighty expansive across the midnight sky. A winged horse battled beside of a mythic dragon. A teacup accepted hot water from a pot of boiling water. Jon laid with with his back on a sheepskin blanket, Ygritte asleep beside him, and analyzed the stars from the slip his foot kept open along the tent flap. Every now and then a cold wind blew the tent open wider, and Jon saw the tip of Aemon the Dragonknight’s sword. Beyond the wall had a better view of it than Winterfell, but it was a pity that Jon could not see it fully.

Ygritte moaned and shifted, her hand twitching where it lay sprawled across Jon’s chest.

He remembered the cave, many nights ago, how much he had loved to be lost in Ygritte’s warmth. But she was right. They should not have left that cave. He wanted to sleep alone to sort through his thoughts. It felt wrong to keep track of all the lies he told the free folk while sharing a bed with Ygritte. It wasn’t like he could refuse her, not after the cave, and their disappearance hadn’t gone unnoticed. People had since been easier on trusting him. Jon liked Ygritte, her warmth, her hair, her passion, but he needed her, too.

Nights like these when his thoughts never settled, only the stars could calm him.

The stars reminded him of Sansa.

On their final night together, after they had kissed until they’d dizzily fallen onto Jon’s bed and that act had them freezing, scared about what the bed implied, Sansa leapt up as it were aflame. She went to the window and looked out to the stars. Her red hair seemed illuminated by the fireplace and the moonlight. Jon watched her for a long while, committing her vision to memory, and questioned how noble his pursuit in joining the Night’s Watch was. She glanced over at him, a small smirk tugging once she caught him staring. Jon averted his gaze to the floor, remembering better than ever that he was a bastard kissing a lord’s daughter under the noses of everyone.

He could have said no in the armory, during their first time. Say no and walk out the door, Ned Stark would not think anything of it. He could not say the same of Mance. He had touched her first and brought her to the library and on their final night, he touched her first once more. He had not craved Sansa like Ygritte in the cave, or perhaps he might have, if they were older and he wasn’t her bastard brother. He liked to think that had they craved another, Jon might have touched her first.

Jon removed his boot to close the tent and listened to Ygritte’s breath rise and fall. Closing his eyes, he laid Sansa’s memory to rest.

* * *

_Jon, Much has happened since you left, not many good. I have news for you that I must say only in person. — Robb_

Robb’s raven and another from King’s Landing from Queen Cersei arrived shortly after the Night’s Watch and free folk leaders newly arrived from Hardhome broke bread at dawn. Lord Commander Edd retrieved the rolled note from the steward, passing it to Jon with a scowl. Jon was too tired and focused on understanding the Night King, but once he spotted the Lannister sigil molded into the melted red wax, he scowled.

Tormund leaned onto his elbows and gestured at the paper with the jutting of his chin. “From one of your southern kings?”

Jon broke the seal and needed a pint of some wilding soured goats milk. “As a matter of fact, one’s from the North. My brother Robb sent it. As for the other, it's from Cersei.”

“I take it that's bad.”

“Her son did behead my father.”

“Think she'll hack you up?”

“No reason to think he will, no reason to think he won't,” said Jon. The table ached from the pressure of Tormund leaning further against it. Jon dropped the scroll and rubbed his eyes. “I can't leave. Not when we don't even understand the Night King and we just stopped a rebellion in the Night’s Watch.”

“Aye,” said Edd, “but you can't refuse. Especially a mad fucker like her. She'd torch Castle Black just because he could. She’s got your sister, doesn’t she?”

“Not for longer. We’re betrothed.” The words felt weightless on his tongue, yet Cersei’s words still scalded. _Marry your murderous whore of a sister or I’ll cut off her pretty little head and send it to you._

“Betrothed?” said Tormund, nonplussed.

“You know…” When it grew clear Tormund did not know, Jon elaborated. “When a marriage is arranged between two people who didn’t seek it.”

Tormund chewed on his stew, considering. “Marriage?”

“Bloody hell,” muttered Edd. “Legally bound to love each other.”

Tormund shifted in acknowledgment. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

“Because words have meaning, you dumb cunt.”

Jon wanted nothing more than to march on King’s Landing and save Sansa from Cersei, his mind not quite contemplating the reality of the terms of her surrender. She deserved so much better than all this. He supposed the Starks could wage war for an independent North to avoid the marriage, but Jon had been researching into the status of politics south of the Wall, and it did not seem the name Stark held the same weight that it had under Eddard Stark.

* * *

Jon rode at dawn and arrived days later, saddle weary and thirsty. At the gate stood Robb and a fat woman smiling lightly with a small babe in her arms. Jon approached them at a canter that slowed to a walk and eventual stop. He jumped off and passed the reins onto a stable boy, disbelieving of what he was seeing: Robb alive and well before him. It felt like a lie, holding Robb’s words in his grasp, yet here his brother stood, alive and well, flesh and bone, breathing and smiling beside his Lady of Winterfell and possible heir.

Robb grinned cheekily at him. Jon shook his head, laughing, and embraced him. Robb clapped his shoulder with one arm and pressed his chest firmly against him — but no other arm came to hug Jon. Slipping away, Jon looked down. The stump hanging off Robb’s shoulder was unmistakable.

Robb’s expression flickered, but it was his Lady who spoke.

“My lord father and the Boltons,” she said, and looked down at her babe, smiling and bouncing her. The giggles pouring out of the cheery young pup were unmistakably feminine. “But don’t you worry. I’m a Stark till my dying breath.”

It all happened at the Red Wedding. His family broke bread with House Frey, only for Catelyn and Robb’s wife to be brutally murdered, and Robb only spared because Bran traded Theon’s life for Robb’s — Theon had been imprisoned, on account of attempting a rebellion to sack Winterfell — but before Theon could arrive, the Bolton men had their fun with Robb’s missing arm. All this was accounted by Walda, his new Frey wife, Robb’s plastered smile impossible to crack. Now that Jon knew to look for it, Robb’s eyes glossed over throughout the whole conversation.

“Seven hells,” muttered Jon at the close of her tale.

Walda kissed her babe, Eddardine, who they affectionately called Edda, named after Ned Stark. “The past can never touch us again, can it, little Edda?”

Robb came alive at that and kissed his wife. He stole Edda from her arms and hugged his daughter close. “Your mum asked you a question, little lady.” He blew a raspberry over either of Edda’s cheeks.

Jon watched them all hollowly, the display too surreal, but he liked that Robb had found happiness after much suffering. But he did not understand how someone like Walda ended up married to Robb. He asked them so.

This time, Robb spoke. “Frey offered me a wife and her weight in gold. Roose Bolton said I ought to pick her, and I realized that if I didn’t, he might as well.” He cradled Edda in his arms and peered smugly at a blushing Walda. “I’m glad he did. I was too much of an idiot to give her a chance.” He kissed Edda’s cheeks. “Now we have much more to discuss with you. But first: Sansa.”

* * *

Jon had yet to regain his footing on solid ground before he was back on the saddle riding south to King’s Landing. Robb spoke strange words when he left Winterfell: _No matter what, never forget that we have much to discuss._ Jon hated secrets, but Robb never tricked him in the past. He doubted his brother would start now.

King’s Landing smelled exactly as Tormund described the North: pig shit. Jon couldn’t wait to venture past the streets and into the cleaner walls of the Red Keep. A stable boy accepted his horse, but Jon did not trust him with her. He walked side-by-side with him to the stables and ensured the security of his horse. He did not loiter long after, heading straight for the throne room to get Sansa and leave as quickly as possible.

It took a moment for news of his arrival to reach Cersei Lannister, and she kept him waiting in the throne room. Cersei sauntered in a dress of red silk with golden trimmings, her hair worn loose and long with a diadem perched on the top of her head. She assumed her seat on the throne and glanced in his diection briefly before flicking a wrist to allow permitance of Sansa into the court.

The tall doors groaned open, and the gasps forced Jon’s curiosity to pique, as did the rattling and clinking. He never turned to look, waiting until Sansa passed him to see her. The Kingslayer walked behind her as she stepped in chains to the Iron Throne. Jon tried not to gawk and succeedied only by the skin of his teeth with quick, impressionable glances out the corner of his eye. Greyed, pale skin lay close to her bones, the ornate and loose southern dress gulfing her in excessive fabric. Her thinned hair was frizzy, tangled in knots, and to restore health, a sizable amount needed to be chopped off in haphazard layers.

She came to a halt, head bowed, and Jaime stood tall and broad chested beside her, palm on the hilt of his sword. “Lady Sansa of House Stark, your Grace.”

“Yes, thank you, Ser Jaime, for retrieving the whore.” The full brunt of Cersei’s gaze landed on Sansa. “I see these past weeks have been hard for you, Lady Sansa.”

“The Queen’s mercy to a deplorable traitor has humbled me, your Grace,” Sansa said. “I wish my word were honorable, but I am ever in debt of your kindness.”

Cersei sneered. “I cannot say that I agree, but be it as it may, I grant you mercy. A mercy never gifted to your traitorous father. The mercy of life. The Night’s Watch does not permit women, and so complications arise for your punishment. I relieve Jon Snow of his vows to the Watch. A lady such as yourself is not fit enough to marry a king, nor a prince. A bastard is high enough.” She smiled kindly. “Be happy, Lady Sansa. You are to live the rest of your life with your family in Winterfell.”

A frisson of rising murmurs shook through the court, chortles breaking through.

“Ned Stark attempted to slanderize House Baratheon and House Lannister over unfounded accusations of incest,” declared Cersei, “a blasphemy that still the smallfolk spread like truth. It shall be a testament to his treason that his trueborn daughter and bastard son should wed.”

Jaime stepped forward and genuflected. “Your Grace, the children of traitors cannot be trusted to make for Winterfell, without gathering allies in the North. Allow me to monitor their journey and ensure these traitors do not betray you.”

Her teeth bared briefly in a sneer, but she granted him this wish. “Very well. Rise, ser Jaime. I trust you with this duty to the crown.”

Jon looked him over uneasily, but noticed the first spark of something resembling _life_ in Sansa’s washed out blue eyes since the start of this spectacle.

Jaime took Sansa away back to her cell, but Jon had yet to leave the throne room before Brienne of Tarth accosted him. “Speak with me privately, Jon Snow,” she said. Her voice commanded a respect Jon was not inclined to dispute. He followed her to a more private area outside in the hallways, yet by the looks of the inhabitants of King’s Landing, Jon preferred to speak in riddles.

“We are to ride immediately,” said Brienne. “Ser Jaime has had Sansa’s saddled prepared long before the anouncement of your betrothal, of which he has been privy to for months on account of orchestrating it himself.”

Jon quieted, stunned, and fought to bring forth a thought. “The Kingslayer?”

“His name is Jaime,” she said brutely. “Ned Stark would remember the name of his daughter’s rescuer, and it’d behoove you to honor him.”

Fury riled him up. “No one knows what Ned Stark would have done. But aye, I’ll honor him.” He refused to name the Kingslayer by anything else but that or a pronoun. He had once honored the name Jaime Lannister. He kept his vows to protect the innocents like a true knight should, but he was Jaime _Lannister_ , and Lannisters had placed his sister in this position. “How soon can we leave?”

“As soon as the Queen entertains herself elsewhere. By nightfall, certainly.”

“Can I see her?”

“I believe that unwise.”

* * *

Wisdom be damned, he had to see her.

Jaime stood guard outside her chambers in the Sept, a sole room instead of the chained wall his father had been kept in. At first, Jon had gone to the dungeons, where the prisoners were typically kept, but Sansa had been moved from her original chained wall to the Sept, where she had atoned every day for a month since the betrothal to her own brother had been announced, the High Sparrow not electing to punish her but instead educate her on chastity, or so the explanation from Jaime went. He wonderd if the High Sparrow had merely appealed for clemency through the barriers of red tape.

“Be sparse with her,” whispered Jaime, eyes flicking past them to the nun watching from shadows. Jon didn’t have to look to sense her. “There are eyes and ears everywhere. One false move could keep the both of you here indefinitely.”

Jon nodded, then Jaime permitted him entrance to Sansa’s cell.

Dressed in rags, Sansa was curled in a corner in the fetal position, the soles of her feet blackened from dirt and her hair in a messy, tangled braid slung over her shoulder and away from the moist stones. A bowl of dried soup and another dried clean, likely of water, sat near the doors. Jaime closed the door behind Jon, and the resulting echo had the room grow smaller with every bounce of noise.

Sansa curled in on herself.

Jon didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t expected a reunion with her — he’d successfully fooled himself into believing her dead — yet here she lied, worse for wear but most certainly breathing warm air into her lungs. He licked his lips. “Sansa?” he said, and waited.

Her bony shoulders quivered. “Jon? Is that you?” But she never moved.

“Aye,” he said, sadly, “it’s me.”

Her limbs unfurled. Joints jutting, ankles as dirty as the bottoms of her feet, one cheek smeared just as dirty with the other clean as a fresh cloth. Greyed out blue eyes looked up, not a single bit of fat folding over as she turned to peer at him over her shoulder. She looked younger, diseased, yet still so, so beautiful, his darling Sansa.

“Oh,” she said, breathless, “it is you. My dearest brother, Jon.”

He crumpled and rushed to her. “Oh, Sansa.” He fell to his knees, the leathers absorbing the pain from landing on solid stone, and took her starved, dirty frame into his arms. She was a little wisp of a person. He sifted fingers over the braid of her dirty hair and gently held her near. Her arms nimbly folded around him, and the second he pressed a small kiss to her temple, sobs racketed her frail back.

“Jon, it was horrible. I wanted to be as brave as Robb.”

“Shh, shh. You did fine. More than fine. Winter is strong in you.”

She cried harder. “Oh, Jon.”

“I’m here now,” he said. He kissed her forehead, dirt on his lips, and kissed her again and again and again. She shivered from sobs in his arms, and he felt tight, listening to her wails and waiting for some wisdom to come to him. Nothing ever did, so he just continued holding and kissing her, clueless however else to help her.

* * *

Sansa was quiet throughout the journey. Her clothes clung to her lanky figure, her cheeks protruding too starkly and the skin of her face too grey. Nothing but her face was exposed, but even that was covered from the tip of her nose to her neck in a thick scarf. Jon refused to allow her to ride alone, so they shared a saddle. Jaime and Brienne hesitated, Brienne offering to ride with her instead, but as her brother and betrothed, it was hard to refuse Jon. Her body, skin and bones more than anything, shook and stabbed him until they found a secure place to settle down for the night.

Jaime, Brienne, and Jon decided on the order to keep guard. Jon started it, with Jaime next, as he claimed the stump made sleep come to him quite later than typical, and Brienne was to awaken after him until they set out for their second day of riding.

Jon’s fury kept him wide awake.

This shameful, humiliating marriage was the only thing keeping Sansa alive. He wondered if after all these years that she’d ever given him thought or if he remained nothing more than a pitiful bastard to her. He still kept her so tenderly in his heart, the years of distance and effort to think her dead contributing little to dampening the feelings which still stirred in his heart, and if she had long lost those embers of romance within her, he did not know what to think of this marriage. She deserved the world, and would get only her bastard brother. He hoped that they would attain something close to Robb and Walda’s marriage. He could give her babes to love and to love her in the way she deserved.

“Knock, knock.” Jaime Lannister emerged beside him.

Jon crooked his jaw and laid a hand on Long Claw. “Kingslayer.”

“Aren’t you a charming one?” said Jaime, voice trailing as Jon left.

Jon did not have a tent of his own, instead sharing one with Sansa. It had been the only words she uttered before they got down from their horses: _Please. Don’t leave me alone._ He would never.

He loosened his boots and tore them off, coming to lay beside her. The weather prohibited anyone to remove clothing.

She lied flat on her back wide awake, those haunted eyes bloodshot with tears. “I dreamed I was still in those dungeons.” She then curled into him and reached past her pile of furs to clutch his jerkin. “Are you now a dream?”

He pulled her closer. “No, I’m not a dream.”

“If you were, you’d be the best dream. I often dreamed of you.” Her hold on him remained, her cheek nuzzling him. “I dreamed that you stormed King’s Landing on a white horse of death and killed Joffrey before taking me away from them all.” Jon did not know what to say to that. “I dreamed we ran away together to Dorne. I heard about Theon at Winterfell and knew it wasn’t safe for Bran, but I was too scared to go anywhere not safe. I’m shameful.”

Jon held her tighter. “You’re not shameful. You said it yourself. You were only scared. I’ve been scared before and thought much the same.” He had not, but that would not help her now. He supposed he had felt desperate at times with the wildlings; he certainly had not felt safe. “I was trapped with the wildlings,” he said. “I had to lie and pretend to I’d turned my back on the Night’s Watch. I fought at their side until I couldn’t. Work is work. Survival is survival. You’re a survivor.”

“A survivor,” she said, considering. “I like the sound of that.”

Jon smiled, charmed at her earnestness. “There you go. Now, rest. We ride as far as we can by the morrow.”

* * *

They rode early and fast, arriving ahead of schedule. At the sight of Winterfell in the horizon, Sansa grew so quiet that Jon kept having to remind himself that her weight signified that she had not fallen clear off the horse several minutes ago. They rode past the gates and dismounted in the courtyard. Robb tended to Bran’s training with a sword on horseback, and so it was Walda and Maester Luwin who welcomed them to Winterfell, so it was only Walda to await their arrival.

Walda recieved Sansa with a kind smile, explaining that her bedchamber remained untouched, save for dusting and cleaning since her leave to King’s Landing, but this went unheard by Sansa. She swirled slowly as her eyes soaked in every sight of the castle. Jon kept watch on her as he tied their horse. Frail and mystified in Winterfell, she seemed as though very little time had passed since she last left, and with that thought, Jon made it a vow for her to be healthy and strong on their wedding day. It marked a special date in both their lives, but Sansa’s especially as she had always dreamed of it. She deserved more than an incestuous, illegitimate husband, and he vowed to make her wedding as perfect as a storybook.

She stopped swirling, but spinned around until she caught sight of him. She said, “Nothing has changed. It’s _exactly_ as I remember it.” She turned to Walda, smiling. “But now I have an older sister who I already cherish in my heart.” She came to Walda and clasped hands, smile growing and eyes widening to reveal more of her whites. Jon’s stomach twinged at the sight. “You must tell me everything, sweet sister, everything that has happened, I want to know. I believe you’ll look darling in light purple, I shall sew you a new gown.”

Walda patted her hand. “Thank you, Lady Sansa.”

“Sansa. Please, call me Sansa.”

Yet something about her still unsettled him. Jon went to them and touched Sansa’s shoulder. “We have journeyed a long way. Would you like to rest?”

She turned to him with that wide smile and equally large eyes. Indeed, the full brunt of her bliss was unnerving. He glanced at Walda who carefully did not meet his gaze. “Yes,” said Sansa, “I think I would appreciate a rest.”

They left, servants having partaken earlier with Sansa’s scant belongings they had towed during the journey a small mare. They turned a corner and were presented with the armory up ahead. At the sight of it, Sansa clutched Jon’s hand. She plowed ahead and dragged him in tow, Jon following her in quick strides after she began to dash. The door shut behind them with a soft gasp, and before Jon asked Sansa what she intended with this diversion, she aburptly burst into tears.

She cried until she sobbed, and Jon didn’t know what to do with a crying woman before him. He touched her shoulder – and she crumpled, falling into the careful embrace waiting for her in his arms. Jon patted her hair and leaned against her, her tears soaking through the collar of his doublet. “Shh,” he whispered. “Everything’s fine. You’re safe at home.”

“You don’t – know that,” she sobbed.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“And – and if they hurt y-you?”

He broke their embrace to grasp her cheeks in either hand. He kissed her forehead and looked into her blue eyes stained red with tears. “No one’s coming for us. We have Robb and wildlings and our bannerman. There’s lands between us and Cersei Lannister. You’re safe here, believe me.”

She chewed on her lip, looking away, and Jon could not have that. He kissed her, suckling on her lip to stop her from biting it raw. He tasted the salt of her tears, the deeply buried memory of their final kiss in Winterfell surfacing from where he had banished it. She felt right in his arms, the truest thing he had ever known, and he never wanted to let her go. He tried to kiss that into their embrace: _I’m never going to let you go._ This had been where they first kissed all those years ago. He wondered if she remembered and if that kiss had changed her life as much as it did hers.

She stopped crying a good minute into the kiss and swayed in his arms dizzily, exhausted and weary from crying and travel, he bet. But he did not dare stop. For all he knew, kissing him was all that kept her sane in that moment. She curled her fingers around his wrists and pulled him closer to her until they were flush against one another. Her soft feminine scent filled him up and left him wanting to get closer to her.

He wanted to touch her, not only kiss her. He wanted to lay her down on a bed and have his wicked way with her, kissing her cunt, her nipples, her belly. The hunger for her began to eat him alive, so he abandoned her lips and kissed south to her neck. He nipped and sucked her skin raw, leaving red splotches in his wake, and continued kissing south. She raised a knee along his thigh, and he gripped her ass, pushing her against the door and using it as aide to hitch her over his hips. He pushed aside her scarf and kissed the cleavage exposed by her southern dress. She shuddered beneath him, the shivers rocketing all throughout her down to the toes of the foot that flinched against his shin. He grinned and nipped her.

She moaned his name, “Jon. Oh, Jon, I missed you everyday.”

 _I only made it through by believing you dead_ , he thought, but did not say. “I missed you to my dying breath,” he said, because it was true. His thoughts shifted into a confused spiral as the Night’s Watch stabbed his chest, and one such thought was of Sansa sewing quitely in the sunshine.

He abandoned her breasts to kiss her mouth again. She sighed into him and dug her fingers into his hair, ruffling it as she fought against the desire stirring in her.

He loved her. She was alive and whole and beautiful. A lowly bastard like him did not deserve her, but for some reason, she had missed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...

**Author's Note:**

> [Fanmix](https://scatteredmoonlightt.tumblr.com/post/187419891257/fanmix-for-my-fic-age-of-surrender-where-sansa) | [tumblr post! :) ♥](https://scatteredmoonlightt.tumblr.com/post/186768788492/the-age-of-surrender-starklings-pining-angst)


End file.
